


Slow and Steady

by MrsNoggin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Rimming, Smut, no redeeming features whatsoever, porny mcporn porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 06:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6645160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sometimes Sherlock could use a hundred words to say something that only needed one. He could put his extensive vocabulary to perfect use and describe the same things in a myriad of styles, or deduce the most effective way of wording a request for it to seem the most attractive option to the victim of the manipulation. He might talk around a subject seemingly for days, hint at things so artfully people weren’t even sure if they weren’t making the suggestion themselves. And sometimes he just opened his mouth and drawled, “I want you to fuck me, John.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow and Steady

**Author's Note:**

> So yes, this was posted ages ago. As in years. And then I had a major anxiety attack about it and took it down and hid it away, for reasons that are unknown. But when have these things ever been rational and reasonable? Anyway, now it's back. 
> 
> Pure unrepentant smut, sorrynotsorry. Unbetaed, unedited, uneverything. 
> 
> Written originally for a prompt from [clarinetchica](http://archiveofourown.org/users/clarinetchica/pseuds/clarinetchica).

* * *

 

“John.”

“Go away.” He was tired. Too tired. For this, for anything, for whatever Sherlock wanted, standing there freshly washed and dressed. John had been up for two days straight. Probably more than that if he cared to count, which he didn’t. And Sherlock appeared to have slept and showered and shaved while John had worked and it was  _not_  fair.

“But –“

“No really. I’m not in the mood. That tone requires me to be in the mood for something. And right now, I’m not even in the mood to make myself a cup of tea. I don’t think I even have enough energy for a _mood_.”

“I’m not asking for tea.” Sherlock sniffed.

“I am.”

“But John...” And then Sherlock flopped.

It was a movement John normally loved, the sudden unruly distribution of weight, the draping of Sherlock’s long arms over John’s shoulders and the press of a firm flat chest against his back.  _Normally._  But now, John was so tired he could barely hold himself up. They both pitched forward dangerously and Sherlock had to catch his own weight with hands that slammed onto the tabletop.

John let himself carry onwards, allowing his face to smoosh into the cool surface. His cheekbone made an odd sort of dull thump and he’d probably regret that later, but right now he just closed his eyes, feeling the room swim a little around him as his tired brain fought to adjust his remaining viable senses. Sherlock was still above him, his presence clear even through John’s foggy consciousness. He could feel the shape of arms caging the space around his shoulders, could smell the cutting scent of shower-gel and the almost mouth-watering sweetness of shampoo. He was hungry, if he cared, and thirsty too, but everything was slowly fading into the soft darkness cushioning around him.

“Are you asleep?” Sherlock had somehow bypassed the wooden chair back that must have dug into his stomach and was leaning even further into John’s space.

Oh God, couldn’t he get a moment’s peace? Not even to pass out at the kitchen table?

 “Unless you are about to offer to take me to bed and tuck me in, leave me alone.” The words slurred into the grooved wood and he felt the distinctly unpleasant slickness of his saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth. He couldn’t actually care less.

The draping was back; Sherlock laid himself over John like some sort of warm bony blanket. It was actually quite pleasant. John let his tense shoulders relax a little into the embrace, if you could even call it that. Sherlock’s lips grazed the shell of John’s ear, sending one of those hot shivers down his spine. It woke him up a little bit. Just enough for him to realise that face down on the table was not a sleeping position he would appreciate later. He’d be sure to sort that out in a minute. Maybe two minutes. Maybe.

“John?” Sherlock was smelling him, John could tell. Skimming his nose over his hair and breathing him down into his lungs. It was nice. Too nice.

“Whaddya want?” John managed. He even cracked his eyes open a slit, which felt like an achievement.

“Well...” his voice had dropped. It positively  _rumbled_  in that indecent way that he had. “I had thought... but perhaps you  _are_  too tired.”

 John felt the beat of wakefulness spreading through him like a wave. A very small wave, and fairly inconsequential, but there. He wanted to know now; there was nothing to be said in that voice that he didn’t want to hear. Maybe he wasn’t quite as tired as he’d thought he was. “Hmmm?”

Sometimes Sherlock could use a hundred words to say something that only needed one. He could put his extensive vocabulary to perfect use and describe the same things in a myriad of styles, or deduce the most effective way of wording a request for it to seem the most attractive option to the victim of the manipulation. He might talk around a subject seemingly for days, hint at things so artfully people weren’t even sure if they weren’t making the suggestion themselves. And sometimes he just opened his mouth and drawled, “I want you to fuck me, John.”

John’s eyes shot open. This second wave of consciousness was a tsunami. His body was taking a second to absorb the sudden flood, and all he seemed able to do was part his lips, still slightly stuck together with drool, and utter something along the lines of “Uuuhng.”

It wasn’t coercion, there was never a moment that John knew he couldn’t tell him to bugger off and leave him alone. And possibly that made it even better. To know that this man wanted him quite that much that he would offer himself on a proverbial platter while knowing that rejection was a definite possibility.

The hot breath of Sherlock’s words was still warming his ear. John wanted more, a fresh heated cloud of air, or the wet caress of a tongue, a sharp nip of teeth. Sherlock, who John occasionally suspected knew what John wanted better than he did himself, did all three. He dipped the pointed tip of his tongue into the top curve of John’s ear, before thrusting it obscenely into the shallow tunnel at the base of his helix, just above his ear canal. Then he took hold of John’s ear lobe with his teeth and panted moist breath loudly.

John was suddenly conscious, fully and thoroughly, running on goodness only knew what, but it burned in his veins. Parts of him were apparently more thoroughly awake than others; his arms still felt heavy and dead, in total contrast to the twitchy filling out of his underwear. He sat up, narrowly avoiding nutting Sherlock in the face, and wiped the dribble from the side of his mouth.

He wasn’t stupid enough to think himself capable of much, in fact he wouldn’t be surprised if he got himself to a bed and then just fell asleep. The current gradual swelling of his cock was a surprise in itself, he would have thought that beyond reasonable chance. But still, he was going to try. “Slow and steady –“

“Wins the race?”

John gave him a shove, a little harder than playful, but not quite annoyed. “Or hard and fast?”

Sherlock’s toothy crinkly-eyed leer faltered for a second and his body visibly softened. “You don’t actually have to, if you’re... Whatever you can manage.”

“I’ll bloody well do better than _manage_.” John scowled and heaved himself up to stand. There was no wobble of legs, as he had expected, apparently the adrenaline and whatever else that had decided to power his body was doing its job. He was intending to send Sherlock off ahead of him, let him make sure there was nothing on the bed that shouldn’t be (the incident with the chipmunks would  _never_  be forgotten) and get rid of his clothes, but his intentions were foiled. Sherlock stepped forwards instead of back, right into John’s space and  _plastered_  himself over him. Before John could even get his lagging arms up and around, Sherlock was crowding him back against the edge of the table, forehead to forehead and pelvis to pelvis.

“John,” he breathed, and kissed him, firm lips lingering in a sultry caress. He did it again, and again, deliberately just as he knew was liked, until John lunged for his mouth and caught hold of him with his own lips and teeth.

When John licked into his mouth, Sherlock gave a moan that was practically incendiary and rolled their hips together. John’s erection was now pushing uncomfortably into the fly of his jeans. It was a speedier recovery than he’d been expecting, Sherlock too – if his noise of pleasant surprise was anything to by.

“Go,” John said, trying to pull back, but Sherlock had his hands in John’s hair and he was having none of it. He tried again, “Seriously, go. Get yourself in that bedroom and naked before I pass out again.”

Sherlock at least obeyed part of that statement and went for the buttons on his shirt with one hand, but he made no move to go anywhere. The rutting of his pelvis was plateauing into a steady rhythm and John felt something building that had no right to be laying foundation this early. Apparently exhaustion turned him into a teenager.

“God,” he groaned, and tipped his head back to allow free access to the teeth biting at his throat. He wrestled with the fastener of Sherlock’s trousers and shoved his hands down the loosened back of them. Firm familiar flesh filled his palms and he grabbed roughly. Sherlock whimpered into his skin.

Hard and fast it seemed then.

Sherlock had his own shirt hanging off and was working on John’s, not quite diligently, but effectively. He lifted a foot to the low rung of the chair John had not long vacated and canted his behind backwards. It was an obvious request and John didn’t think he’d ever been asked in such a gorgeously unconscious fashion before. He didn’t hesitate to dig his hand lower into the tangled mess of boxers and rumpled low trousers and slip his fingers between the round curves of Sherlock’s buttocks.

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, fighting valiantly against the restraints of his clothing to widen the stance of his legs even further. He growled in frustration as John’s fingers fell short of their target. “No. Oh, _damn it_! Clothes are a tedious waste of time and money,” he muttered.

John just grinned and kissed his complaining pout until it melted back into aroused compliance, before he dealt with Sherlock’s quandary quickly and easily, forcibly moving him backwards and yanking his trousers and underwear down his thighs. Then he twisted easily behind his partner and had him forwards and bent over the table before Sherlock had even noticed he was intending to.

“What happened to slow and steady?” Sherlock asked, but then John was rubbing a jean-clad erection into the crack of his arse and a palm over the slippery head of Sherlock’s naked cock and he had to grab at the overhang of the table-edge.

“I’m not racing,” John grunted. He let go and raked blunt nails down the sides of Sherlock’s slender hips.

John grappled with his belt and bent to plop kisses on Sherlock’s buttocks. Sherlock pushed eagerly back into him. John knew what was wanted of him, and he had every intention of giving it, when he finally got the damn belt off.

It gave with a clink and rattle as he tugged it off carelessly and his concentration was free. He directed his mouth lower, inwards, grazing his lips down the lightly fuzzed crease as a tease before lathing his tongue out, but barely making contact with the edges of Sherlock’s entrance, which was only hinted at, even in this position. He had to grab with his hands to hold him still though, and he used his thumbs to spread his cheeks apart so he could get his tongue flat and wet where he wanted it.

“Uh... oh!” Sherlock was practically a quivering mess within seconds, and where John had intended only to use his tongue as a gentle swift warm-up before he introduced other parts of himself, now he sank to his knees.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, knowing he had nowhere near the capacity to conquer both, and lowered his head once more. He could tell he was heeded because Sherlock’s spine was rolling in a splendid rhythm as he thrust forwards and back between the two sensations.

John licked and flicked, teasing around the edges to loosen him up and then finally tensing his tongue and pressing in. Sherlock was growling and cursing up above, swearing into the wood of the table, standing up on his toes to push back. John smiled into his task, curling his tongue to tug lightly, digging his fingers into whatever they could. Sherlock was fucking gorgeous like this, all shaking begging need. John loved it.

There was a creak and a sliding sound from the end of the table, and Sherlock had somehow managed to reach the drawer and retrieve things from it, though his hands were trembling as he passed them down behind him. Condom and lube – perfect. John took great pleasure in getting himself out of his jeans and boxers without removing his tongue from Sherlock’s arse. He sheathed and slicked his prick without even looking. As a reward he gave himself a couple of loose strokes with one hand as the other slid back up the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. He used his saliva mixed with some leftover lube to press a blunt thumb into Sherlock’s wet but still tight hole.

“John!” He hadn’t been expecting that. But that made hardly any difference. “No, don’t come out!”

John wanted to give him a good slap on the rear for that tone, but he gave Sherlock what  _he_  wanted anyway, removing his mouth completely. He tucked his fingers down along his perineum, kneading down behind his balls and settled in for a good fingering.

“Yes, no, I want you to fuck me, John,” Sherlock pleaded, “Please.”

It was the please, to be fair, that settled it. John stood up, ignoring the complaints of his knees and the slight dizzy spell, and pulled Sherlock down and back. The man was too tall and his legs too long for this to work easily. It would take a bit of muscle strain on both of their parts, maybe the bed would have been a better idea. John half-heartedly mused on the wisdom of this whole idea, or lack of it, as he lined himself up and squirted a bit more lube, just to be safe. There could never be too much lube, well, unless you had to clear it up afterwards. The stuff was hell to mop up.

Sherlock wasn’t actually completely ready to take him in, they didn’t get around to this that often, and the first slow thrust received a tensing of muscles and a little whine.

“Hang on.” John stopped moving, knowing pulling out could be just as uncomfortable.

“No, stop hanging, just get on with it,” Sherlock snarled, “Get in. Start fucking.”

“Sherlock...”

“John!” And then he was pushing back, against the anchor of John’s grip, sinking tight heat onto John’s cock with a single-minded determination.

“Oh my, just, oh you flipping, wait, ok, yes. Fine!” He gave up as Sherlock’s behind made contact with the hollow of John’s pelvis. And he did as he was told. But he went slow, with his lover’s comfort in mind, let him adjust with shallow gentle thrusts that gradually grew longer and longer until it was a luxurious slow fucking. The lack of speed heightened the sensation and Sherlock was keening, panting into the table, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on every outstroke.  

“More,” Sherlock grunted, somehow sounding completely in control even as he struggled for breath. “Get a bloody move on, John.”

The gear change was natural and easy and John relished the spark of something in his belly, blooming down to his balls and maintaining the new speed almost for him. He couldn’t even aim for Sherlock’s prostrate in this position, he was too low and at entirely the wrong angle, once again he wished for a bed, but Sherlock didn’t seem bothered. He wasn’t squirming and moving them around as he sometimes did. Apparently this time he was after something else, and if the noises he was making were anything to go by, he was getting it.

John caught hold of Sherlock’s hand and steered it down, wrapping both of their fingers around Sherlock’s cock so he definitely got the idea, before pulling away and sliding his palm up Sherlock’s spine, slipping beneath the sweat-dampened edge of the shirt he’d never managed to get off. He would do it for him, wank him with a twist and a flourish quite happily, but Sherlock’s orgasms were flighty things and sometimes a little stimulation in the wrong place would send them fluttering away and send Sherlock flying into a sulk. After John was satisfied, obviously, he wasn’t as selfish a lover as he was a flatmate.

“If I do that I’m going to come,” Sherlock protested, but did it anyway.

“That is the point of this exercise, so I’m led to believe.” John had no idea how he was making sense, let alone being smartarse about it, but it made them both chuckle and chuckling was wonderful when John was inside and felt every sound as a squeeze of tissue around his cock.

And then Sherlock was making those delicious sounds he made when he was on the verge of absolutely exploding, and immediately John was there too. His body was still too tired to build it up properly, so it seemed, and the heavy heat settled almost awkwardly in his pelvis. He was suddenly aware of sweat cooling on his forehead, trickling down his temple and slicking his hands. And he was also suddenly aware that if he even managed to come he was going to collapse afterwards, in an entirely undignified heap on the kitchen floor. But then Sherlock’s muscles were rippling and convulsing and his  _oh oh_ -ing had turned into  _ah ah_ -ing and strained  _fucks_  and  _Johns_  and then he stiffened, arching up into John’s belly as he came and let out an almighty bellow that vibrated the floor beneath their feet.

John froze, as he knew he should – overstimulation could be horrific, and while sometimes that was a fun game to play, right now wasn’t the time.

“Do you want me out?” he asked gently, after Sherlock had squished his face back into the tabletop.

“No...?” Sherlock tried. John gave a slow movement, not even a thrust, just a shift inwards and it completely settled the matter. “Yes, out, out, off!”

There was a stunning tugging and suction on his cock as Sherlock’s body agreed and disagreed and John was so on the edge that he pulled the condom straight off upon freedom, discarding it to the floor somewhere, who cared, and it only took four or five quick jerks of his fist and he was shuddering, splotching his come in beautiful little splatters on Sherlock’s exquisite behind.

“Oh god, John,” Sherlock was no longer flopping and was up on his elbows, twisting his spine almost unnaturally to watch. “That is so...”

“Tiring.” John mumbled while Sherlock struggled for a satisfactory adjective. Now came the collapsing.

Except it didn’t, because Sherlock stood up, on his own pair of shaking legs, and gave John enough support under his arms to get them as far as the bedroom. John’s legs were so tangled in his jeans that he almost missed the bed, but with a last-second lean, hit the edge of the mattress as he fell and it caught his landing. He still had all his clothes on, though they were in serious disarray, but he couldn’t even bear contemplating doing anything about it.

And then Sherlock climbed over him and lay behind, probably smearing come absolutely everywhere, pulling him close and away from the edge with a strong embracing arm. “Thank you.”

John grumbled and frowned, his chest still heaving. The bliss was settling, weighing him down and merging and mating with his exhaustion. “Don’t thank me. You make me feel like a prostitute.”

“I’m not thanking you for the sex,” Sherlock said and his eye-roll was obvious even though John couldn’t see it. “Go to sleep now.”

It really didn’t take long, and as he felt the room slipping away Sherlock was kissing his neck, tangling their still socked feet together, and crooning gentle words of love in John’s ear.

 

 


End file.
